


Three Point Four

by LouPF



Series: Sweet Lullaby [5]
Category: Rick and Morty
Genre: Age Play, Age Regression/De-Aging, Caregiver Morty, Discovery, Fear of Discovery, Little Rick, Loving Ricks, M/M, Morty Miracles Daycare, Morty's pretty much just Morty, Nicknames, Non-Sexual Age Play, POV Morty, POV Multiple, POV Rick, POV Third Person, Self-Discovery, Various Rick Personalities, hELP the ricks and mortys are taking OVER, i'm going to have to make a list, in which case morty loves rick and rick loves morty and it's a clusterfuck of characters, petnames, this is insane
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-29
Updated: 2020-06-29
Packaged: 2021-03-03 21:34:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,739
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24982399
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LouPF/pseuds/LouPF
Summary: Z-623 Rick knows the statistics. Of a thousand Mortys, only 0,33 of them are caregivers. That's not in percent, that's overall. Even worse - of a thousand Ricks, only 0,1 of them are littles.The math checks out.He's fucked.
Relationships: Morty Smith & Morty Smith, Rick Sanchez & Morty Smith, Rick Sanchez & Rick Sanchez, Rick Sanchez/Morty Smith
Series: Sweet Lullaby [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1785499
Comments: 5
Kudos: 84





	Three Point Four

**Author's Note:**

> fun fact, this fic made June my most productive month so far in the year!!

When Morty realizes he’s a caregiver, it’s like finding a missing puzzle piece.

It’s two whole weeks after he’s introduced to age regression that he first thinks the thought, but he discards it almost immediately. No. He, Morty Smith? He can’t be. Not a _caregiver._

But he is. It takes seeing a baby at the store drop her pacifier for him to finally accept and realize it - he’d jolted at the view, his fingers curling as he fought the need to walk over and pick it up for the little angel.

And it isn’t the same. A baby and a little isn’t the same, he knows that, but they’re close enough for it to count, he figures.

He goes home and reads articles on how to be a good caregiver. In a fit of courage, he joins a Discord server, and, after looking at the roles, he’s overjoyed to see the amount of littles. He never connects with any of them on a personal level, but he enjoys taking care of whoever needs it whenever they need it. While browsing the internet, he finds a magazine geared towards age regression in general - both on the ’caring’ side and the ’being cared for.’ Eager, he subscribes to it, getting it sent in the mail once every month.

They’re great, giving him information and tips and recipes, how to approach different types of littles, lists of nicknames, and so on. The sections for littles are wonderful, too, letting him see ‘the other side of the fence’, so to speak.

For three glorious months he gets the magazines uninterrupted, and then Rick finds them.

“Aww,” he coos mockingly, holding it high up in the air like a bully might, cocking a teasing eyebrow down at him, “is Morty into _age regression_?” He flips through the magazine a little. “What, wasn’t it enough to be a fucking child, you had to be even _younger_? Gross.”

Morty, angry beyond comprehension, twists his hands into tight fists, and says, voice shaking, “I - I’m a _caregiver_ , Rick, if you m - must know!”

Rick stops, giving him a surprised look. Then he bursts into loud laughter. The magazine slides onto the floor as he bends over, hands on his knees. “Ch - Christ, Morty, y - you can’t _mean_ that! F - fuck, no Mortys are _caregivers -_ littles, Morty! You’re supposed to be _littles_!”

“W - well,” says Morty, and picks up the magazine, folding it with short, sharp motions. “I’m _not._ ”

Rick laughs again, shaking his head, dumbfounded. “L - look, Morty, I’ll - you’re - you’re so young, you - you don’t _know_ this, pf - “ He fumbles in his pockets, dragging out his portal gun. “I’ll show you - you’re wrong, I’ll - “

Morty is too angry to roll his eyes when he follows Rick through the portal. They step out into a lobby, of sorts – the floors carpeted and the walls a dusky blue. There’s a counter in dark wood, where a Rick - dressed in a comfortable sweater and with a pair of rectangular glasses balanced precariously on his nose, hair cut short - leans against the wall. “Hey,” he says, when he notices them. “Guests?”

“Y - yeah,” Rick says, grinning impishly. “M - my Morty here thinks he’s a caregiver, apparently, so, I - I’m gonna leave him here for the day, let him see if he - if he changes his mind, y’know.”

The Rick doesn’t look too interested, only nods his head vaguely. “First time?”

“Yup,” says Rick.

“Fill out this form.”

It’s Morty who’s handed the paper - it’s easy enough, a space for dimensional codes and several boxes to cross off, such as ’caregiver, little, switch, or sibling’ and a long list of different personalities and character traits to each one of them.

Morty, giving his Rick the stink eye, crosses of ’caregiver’, ’enthusiastic’, and ’open for anything’. He hands the form back. The Rick reads it over, then swiftly and deftly puts together a tri-coloured bracelet, which he tucks around Morty’s wrist.

“The rules are - oOOURp - as follows: no cursing, no violence, no portals. Listen, a no means a no, and respect the colour codes.” He hands over a list of various colours. “Here’s the complete list, and remember, a Morty is always open to explain his colours.”

(a quick check proves he got a caregiver bracelet; his is red, like fire.)

It sounds like the Rick is very, very bored, but - Morty notes, watching with careful eyes - there’s a hint of warmth to him that his own Rick lacks.

He looks like he’s a good listener.

“Thank you,” Morty says quietly.

“Whelp,” says his Rick, clapping his hands loudly. “I - I’ll be back in - in a few hours.” He shoots Morty a shit-eating grin, then adds, mockingly, “have fun!”

The moment he’s gone, the glass-wearing Rick sighs heavily. “Don’t mind him, h - he’s a dick,” he says. “If - if you’re a caregiver, you’re a caregiver.” He shrugs a bit, turning aside to tinker with some pens. It looks like he’s building a tower. “Most Mortys are littles, so what? A - all rules have exceptions.” He hesitates. “Uh... almost all rules. This sure has.” Chuckling, he turns back to give Morty a lopsided grin. “Mortys l - love caregiver Ricks, sure. B - but they _adore_ caregiver Mortys. It’ll f - feel a bit weird, but you’ll get used to it.”

Morty tilts his head. “You - you sound like you’re f - familiar with this.”

The Rick shrugs. “I am. Been working here for a few years - only seen a few caregiver Mortys, but hey! You exist.”

“Uhm.” Morty picks at his neck. He asks, both out of curiosity and genuine interest, “Are... are there any - any little... _Ricks_?”

The Rick, surprisingly enough, doesn’t seem to think it’s a weird question. “Wanna know what I think, kid?” Morty nods hesitantly. “I think all Ricks are littles, deep down. We’re just too proud to admit it.” The Rick reaches for a bottle, and Morty side-eyes it uncertainly - but the label clearly says ’water’, and the Rick has seemed professional enough so far. “As for your question... heh. I’ve seen one or two little Ricks, but they’re rare and often inc - incredibly bratty. They’re rarely brave enough to - to come here.”

Morty frowns. “Brave enough?”

“Yeah.” The Rick shrugs. “It - well, it takes courage to be open to a Morty. We’re not s - supposed to rely on you, just protect. Generally, at least. But, hey!” He winks. “Maybe you’re lucky.” Leaning over the counter, he points down a hallway. “First door to the right, it’s clearly labelled.”

“O - oh!” Morty had almost forgotten that his Rick had taken him here for a reason. “R - right. Thanks!”

“Course,” says the Rick. “Now shoo! Go get ’em, tiger!”

*

Every eye is on him when he walks through the doors. He swallows, quickly scanning the room first - decently sized, pillows and blankets spilling across the floor and comfortable chairs lining the walls, a vending machine in the corner and piles of plushies and toys scattered around. A few windows lets soft sunlight spill through pale blue curtains.

Finding nothing threatening, Morty moves on to the people. Mortys and Ricks, obviously - wearing more diverse clothing than Morty has ever seen on his counterparts before. There are lone Mortys and Mortys in groups, some napping, others cuddling, others again playing or just talking.

Some Ricks are on the floor playing with them - one has a Morty napping on each thigh - but most of the Ricks sit on various chairs around the room, reading magazines, tinkering with scrap metal, or talking quietly to each other.

And they all look up when he enters. The Ricks eye him with interest, the Mortys with joy.

He gives a little wave, and every head tracks the movement.

Several soft ’oh’s escape various people present. Morty figures it must be the red of his bracelet.

One of the three Ricks wearing the same clothes - black sweatpants and a pale blue hoodie - approach him. “First timer?” he asks, glancing down at Morty’s wrist.

“Heh, y - yeah,” Morty grins. “I’m - I’m not sure what to... or how to...?”

The Rick gives him a kind smile. It looks out of place on a Rick’s face. “Most people are like that the, uh, the first time. I’m a Babysitter Rick, we work here - c’mon, I think I know a few Mortys that might be interested.”

“Oh,” says Morty, relieved. “Gr - great, thanks.”

He follows as the Babysitter Rick leads him through the room, sinking to his knees before a group of three Mortys trying to put together a semi-difficult puzzle. Simple enough if you’re big - kind of hard if you’re little. “Hey, angels,” the Babysitter Rick greets, voice soft and warm.

The Mortys, all wearing blue bracelets that display various levels of playfulness, look up. One of them, the only one without a pacifier, says, “hi ’Ick!”

“I have a - a new caregiver here today,” Babysitter Rick explains, looking at them all in turn. Morty stays semi-hidden behind his back, watching the littles carefully. “Could - could you be real good boys and help him warm up to the place?”

They all nod eagerly.

“Oh, thank you, you’re real sweethearts,” Babysitter Rick coos, patting them all on the head. “Okay, here he is... ready?”

They nod again, and Rick shifts aside, letting Morty come forth.

All three of the little Mortys let out eager gasps, one of them foregoing the puzzle in favour of giving him a clumsy hug, inspecting his bracelet, then petting his hair, then looking at his face.

“You’ a Mo’ty!” he says, sounding equal parts overjoyed and surprised.

“Yeah!” says Morty, smiling from ear to ear as he arranges the Morty so he won’t hurt himself on the puzzle. “I am, just like you! And I’m h - here to help you, if you - if you’ll let me.”

“Yea!” the Morty says, clapping his hands together. “Bi’ Morty! Wow!”

Morty laughs and bops his nose. “I’m a special one, yeah - and! And so are you!” The Mortys all let out gleeful gasps. “Yes, real special, every single one of you! Here - let me, heh, let me help with the puzzle...”

*

By the time his Rick comes to pick him up, Morty has gathered the attention of every single Morty in the daycare.

They _love_ him.

Rick is furious. Morty can’t help but feel a bit cocky for a long, long while.

And Rick agrees to take him back once a week. Just to keep him off his ass about it.

 _Fuck yes_ , thinks Morty, and notes it down as a victory.

***

Rick is just a teenager when he realizes he’s a little, and it’s the one part of himself he consistently keeps hidden. He’s ashamed of it; the need for attention, the soreness of being alone, the vulnerability of _regressing._ It’s terrible, and he hates every aspect of it - from it existing, to him wanting to hide it, to the fact that he _does_ want to hide it.

It gets worse as he grows older. He feels predatory, struggles with guilt - wonders what it’d be like, if he didn’t have to routinely shut himself off and suck on a piece of plastic until he calmed down again.

Morty is born, and Rick watches the Smith family from afar, waiting. He does research in the meanwhile, carefully placed - what could his Morty be like? What are the chances of various outcomes? What are the universal likes, dislikes, and so on?

He’s desperate for his Morty to like him, support him, and look up to him like a Morty should. His little-side overshadows it with fear and terror, whispering that _you’re not good enough and you never will be, you’re just a broken child clinging to attention._

He’s Rick fucking Sanchez, and sometimes he feels so small that he can barely think straight.

Discreetly, he finds the numbers: 11% of registered Mortys are active in the age regression community. 99,7% of those Mortys are littles.

Only 5% of registered Ricks are active, and only a whopping 0,2% of those are littles.

Jesus Christ, he thinks, and takes a long chug of alcohol. Talk about going against the stream.

Pushing it aside - shoving it away - it doesn’t work. It only hurts him, in the long run - makes it easier to slip over the edge and tumble into the abyss of plushies and softness. And if there’s anything Rick knows, it’s that you can’t let yourself be a danger to yourself.

So he indulges. If only to protect himself against regressing when he absolutely should not.

It’s his Morty who finds him. He’d forgotten to lock his door, lies curled up in bed beneath a blanket, pacifier in mouth and tears in his eyes. When Morty opens the door, the universe crumbles to dust around them.

And Morty, bless and curse his soul, _apologizes._ He comes in, closes the door, tries to talk to him. Stutters, uncertain - “I - I know, I know what you - kinda - but I - I can’t help, Rick, I’m - I’m sorry, I don’t think - “

Through his terror, Rick glares as hard as he can. It’s got nothing on his death stare as big, but Morty flees nonetheless, properly spooked.

But it doesn’t end there. Morty keeps bothering him about it.

_Have you found a caregiver yet, Rick?_

_I did research, Rick, most littles say they like having someone to talk to._

_Rick, please, do something. I can see you falling apart and it scares me._

In the end, Rick goes for his Morty. His dearest, wonderful Morty who just wants the best for him.

Rick has always been part of the 29% that are kind.

He’s also someone who does everything or nothing, diving off into the deep end to see if the water is deep enough to drown in.

Usually, it is.

So. Forget caregivers; Rick goes to find littles to talk to. And what better place to start than his own grandson?

(he really does go all in.)

At the Citadel, he’s pointed towards _Morty Miracles Daycare_. He thinks the name is cliche, but goes anyways.

He spends seventeen minutes beforehand memorizing the colour-codes, making sure to know the difference between shades. This isn’t something he wants to fuck up - he’ll be interacting with Mortys in various stages of littlespace, and likely other Ricks acting as caregivers.

It’s terrifying the first time. The Mortys are curious and gentle, and they easily pull him under into littlespace, dragging him all the way into his most playful of moods. He lets them inspect his pacifier and toys with their curls, giggles at their antics and coos in interest over their interesting creations.

He was never afraid of the Mortys.

It’s the Ricks that are worrisome.

They watch from the sidelines, and he feels their gazes burn into his neck. He feels judged, most of the time, but every now and then a kind Rick comes along and pets his hair, lets him curl into his side, hums softly for him until he slips into sleep.

It’s terrifying, and beautiful, and so utterly human he can barely breathe.

And it isn’t enough. Kind Ricks are few and far between, but even when they’re there, it _isn’t enough._ Rick wants more. He _needs_ more.

And then one day, just a normal regular day, a Morty bearing a red bracelet walks in through the doors.

***

It’s Morty’s ninth visit at _Miracles_ , and Glasses Rick has long since gotten used to his presence. He checks in, gets his bracelet, and -

He zeroes in on a Rick almost immediately upon entering the Daycare. He looks just like any other Rick.

Except for the fact that he’s wearing a sweater, fuzzy socks, and a _pacifier._ There’s a flash of blue around his wrist.

Morty freezes. His heart throbs.

A little Rick? Is he seeing wrong? A _little Rick_?

The Rick isn’t on his own, far from it, but he’s only surrounded by other Mortys, showing them with uncharacteristically clumsy hands how to put together the infamous toy portal gun. Some of the Mortys recognize Morty, brightening and calling “Momo!”, the nickname Caregiver Morty so generously has been given.

(And he’s proud of that, both Momo and the fact that he’s known as _Caregiver_ Morty, it shows respect, it means he’s making a _mark_. He’s never really wanted to be famous, but for this? For this, _absolutely._ )

“Hey, angels!” Morty says, making a beeline for them. He kisses every cheek he can reach, pats all the hair he can find, and drops onto the floor, watching the little Rick carefully. “And y - you got a new friend, huh, didn’t you?”

“This ’Ick!” a Morty says, draping himself across little Rick’s lap. Rick giggles, then seems surprised at the sound and ducks his head.

Morty glances at his bracelet. His heart swells at the yellow band, indicating Rick’s shyness. He’s always liked shy littles - they’re so easy to please, and the way they light up and blush at the slightest compliment is adorable. “Y - yeah, I can tell, sweetheart,” Morty says, addressing the Morty who’d been kind enough to keep him updated. He tilts his head, trying to meet the poor Rick’s gaze. “And w - we have a shy baby here, huh? What’s your name, dearie?”

The first few times Ricks or other Mortys had asked about his name here, he’d been confused. It was pretty clearly Morty, wasn’t it? But it hadn’t taken long to catch onto the fact that it was, in fact, a _different_ question: ’are you a regular - do you have a nickname? If not, what’s your dimensional code?’

Many of the regulars have nicknames – Morty’s own is ’Blu’, because he tends to wear a blue sweater whenever he’s in caregiver mode. Other visitors he’s familiar with are Osyx, Seven, and Jase (all Mortys), along with Ayen (a Rick).

The little Rick before him sticks out his hand, pointedly looking another direction, and Morty takes it, gently brushing his thumbs over the soft skin. Rick’s dimensional code, Z-623, stands proud against the blue.

“Oh, would you l - look at that,” Morty coos, doing some quick math. “I’m A-377, together we’re - we’re AZ-1000!”

The Rick’s eyes widen, and a light blush breaks out across his cheeks as he looks away.

“His name is Zey,” one of the Mortys says, smiling widely at Rick.

“How fitting,” says Morty kindly. “I’m B - Blu. Were - were you doing something before I came, sweetie?”

It’s aimed at Rick, who nods and shoves the half-done portal gun across the carpet.

Morty, who has made probably fifteen of those by now, immediately spots a bolt in the wrong place. “And w - were you figuring it out?”

Rick visibly pouts and shakes his head.

“Help, Momo,” one of the Mortys whines miserably, dramatically draping himself over Morty’s lap. Morty chuckles, then blows against his exposed belly, which causes him to squeal and wriggle away.

“Momo’s gonna help, don’t you w - worry,” says Morty, sticking out his tongue at the mockingly offended Morty. “Momo’s gonna help aaaaaall the little Mortys.” He glances over at Rick, sitting with his knees drawn up to his chest and watching, uncertain. Deciding to test the waters, Morty licks his lips and adds, “and little Ricky, too.”

When Rick’s eyes go wide and a surprised, gleeful smile curls around his lips, Morty knows he’s smitten.

*

It’s a nice evening. Morty lavishes Rick in attention and care. Over time, it becomes pretty obvious that the poor boy hasn’t had much attention from caregivers in his time - it’s like he’s oversensitive to everything, every look and every touch.

It isn’t like Morty is _lacking_ in littles to take care for, he’s protective of every little Morty at _Miracles -_ he affectionately calls them his ’pack of wonders’ - but there’s something to little Rick that draws him in.

And, shit, but Morty _wants_ him.

It’s kind of unorthodox, but it doesn’t really break any rules - so when Morty sees Rick leave _Miracles_ half an hour before Morty is scheduled to, he follows. To his great relief and surprise, Rick doesn’t portal directly out, instead opting to walk into the Citadel.

Morty runs after him, jogging down the street. “Rick!” he calls, and though several Ricks glance over, _little_ Rick does not. Grunting at his mistake, Morty tries again. “Zey!”

The Rick tenses, then turns, wary. He softens a bit around the edges when he sees Morty. “Blu?”

Coming to a halting stop before him, Morty attempts a smile. “H - hey, look, I - we’re not really supposed to d - do this, but - uhm.” He hands over a slip of paper. “My number. Intergalactic.”

Rick raises an eyebrow, and he looks so _incredibly_ Rickish right then that it’s almost jarring. “You, you trying to ask me out or wh - or something?”

“No,” says Morty, rolling his eyes. “It’s just - I - I know what it’s like to be alone and un - uncertain, so, I thought, you know... if I can help, I will. I want to.” He shrugs a bit, smiling softly. “We’re wired to want to.”

Eyeing the slip like it’s an angel and he an atheist, Rick slowly unfurls his fingers to grasp it. “What... exactly are you s - saying, Morty?”

Morty draws a deep breath. “I’m saying that if you want a caregiver, I’m here.” He holds Rick’s gaze, refuses to look away even when he does. “R - roles reversed. It isn’t that uncommon.”

“Three point four,” says Rick.

“Huh?”

“Three point four percent of registered Rick and Mortys have major role reversals,” he explains. He glances down at the paper, then up at Morty. “I’ll... I’ll think about it.” He turns, begins to walk away. Stops, throws a look over his shoulder, and quietly adds, “...thanks.”

*

Morty isn’t sure if Rick’s going to take him up on the offer. He hopes he does, but he knows how stubborn Ricks can be. Still, he’s almost forgotten the whole thing two weeks later, when a text message rolls in from an unknown number.

_If I take u up on ur offer, w_ _hat do i call u_

After a quick check of numbers-to-dimensions, it proves Morty’s suspicions correct.

Z-623.

_Whatever you want :)_

He saves the number as ’Zey.’

There’s a long, long pause.

_how abt papi_

Morty presses the phone against his chest, pressing his face into a pillow to keep his eager squeals muffled, biting his lips _hard._

_papi sounds wonderful <3_

**Author's Note:**

> List of characters and their nicknames:
> 
> MORTYS  
> Osyx: C-106 (main Morty of this series)  
> Seven: C-137 (canon Morty)  
> Jase: J-67 (mentioned in 'Morty Miracles Daycare')  
> Blu: A-377 (Caregiver Morty)
> 
> RICKS  
> Ayen: A-110 (appears in 'Morty Miracles Daycare')  
> Zey: Z-623 (Little Rick)
> 
> UP NEXT: probably a little look at what happened with Seven between the last fic and this one! 
> 
> Also, a question for y'all: do you prefer if i stick to 'Rick' and 'Morty' in these fics, no matter which dimensional number? Or should I use their given nicknames (Blu, Seven, Zey, etc)? I'd like to hear your input before I do anything more!
> 
> Thanks for reading <3 And the many, MANY wonderful comments!! I appreciate them soooo muchhhhhh


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